North through 'Nam

Arriving at Mu Nei in the devillishly early hours of the morning partially concealed its deplorable nature, although I noticed through bleary eyes that we had careered past a multitdue of meretricous signs glowing garishly out into the night. I dropped my bag at a drunken European's homestay run by himself and his unimpressed Vietnemese wife, before we strolled to a nearby beachside trance rave where I was unfortunately quickly accosted by some inhebriated egotistical travellers and embroiled in some uninteresting gap yar chat before I surrupticiously slipped away beneath the palm trees to snooze on a sunbed outside a beautiful swanky resort. Having organised a taxi when i arrived, I met a Land Rover on the road at 4am ready to head to the huge rolling sandunes for a solitary, enchanting sunrise. How mistaken I was. What I found instead were small undulating waves of multi-nationals ignoring the disgracefully lustrous sunrise to the East in favour of hurtling giant gas-guzzling obstroerous dune buggies down westward hills to a maddening din which deystroyed the day's dreamy beginning somewhat. After several more stops on this bizarre and progressively random whistle-stop tour I'd become unwillingly complicit in, that included an uncomfotable 15 minute gawk a local fishing village, I decided to abscond inland to the coffee plantations of Da Lat.

The slightly chilier climate at an elevation of 1,500 metres proved bracing as I ventured out in the evening to be confronted by the buzz of an enormous bizarre along the central streets of Da Lat. Friendly gossiping Vietnemese women bobbed about behind mountainous mounds of sweet potatoes, strawberries and giant avacados whilst others sorted rigrorously through precipitous piles of endless eccentric homemade woolly garments. Thrift rails extended as far as the eye could see harbouring an intoxicatingly

exciting stockpile of retro Adidas numbers and anoracks fit for even the trendiest in East London at costs which made Primark look extortionate. Sweetcorn had become a fervent favourite of mine, and I scrupulously sniffed out the dish, which was presented in a variety of persistently delicious formats, in each country. So I busied myself sampling a disquieting abundance of street food before staggering, utterly turgid and uncomfortable, back to my room. I rented a motorcycle and cruised gleefully around the glorious hills of

the surrounding and memerising countryside, beckoned in to visit waterfalls and architectural gems managed consisely and compassionately by Vietnam's careful tourist attendants. The city had a beautifully warm feeling to it as, besides the unaltering amiability of its animated residents, the gorgeous rolling hills were carpeted with imaginative, colourful homes neatly organised in rambunctious order which were vaguely reminiscent of little alpine chalets nestled in the Alps. I loved my time there, particularly the

repeat evenings sat on 4 inch high plastic stools beside the most jocular sweetcorn lady I'd encountered, who developed the decadence of my evening dish with each of my increasingly enthusiastic visits.

I headed off to hug the coast North on my way to Hanoi for a flight to Indonesia. The next stop was the beaches of Nha Trang. Once again, rubbing the sleepy dust out of my drooping eyelids after a formideable sleeper coach journey, squeezed like a giant caucasian sardine into a space built for the Vietnemese minnow. I was unimpressed with my destination. The heavy footprint of tourism besmirched the crystal clear waters and expansive curve of white sandy shores with soulless towering hotels and impenetrable rows of sunbeds hosting progressively pinking Russians. I enjoyed a day of devouring

books on the beach, dipping lesiurely in the sea, and the day was saved by bumping utterly numinously into some lovely friendly Californians I'd chanced across and enjoyed a raucuous 5 minutes of hilarious interactions in Da Lat only the day before. During the brief encounter, we shared beers, pizza, details and promises of future rendez vous before I walked for my bus relishing the ability to enjoy such fleeting yet affable connections when in the blissful remit of itinerant wanderings. After approximately 6 oppressive hours in Nha Trang, I was bound overnight for Hoi An, about half way up Vietnam's eastern coast.

It was then that a sudden paniced prescience struck me as I teetered on the edge of slumber. I checked my flight ticket at which time I was confonted by the full ignominious glare of my latest flight mistake. I'd been labouring casually under the illusion I was flying in 4 days. In fact, that was the date I had left India on my previous voyage amonth before, and I was leaving from Hanoi, over 600km North in 48 hours. After a brief and torrid bout of silent self reproach I quickly slipped into fatalistic acceptance, planned a wistful days wandering around the gorgeous historical streets of Hoi An sampling a gut-busting barrage of street treats before an early morning strom to Hue, followed 6 hours later by an onward overnight whip to Hanoi, which should all get me in 4 hours before my flight if all went to plan.....

Arriving in Hue I was devestated at the thought of missing the chance to walk the infamous Demilitarized Zone, a barren border identified by the Geneva Conference in 1954 which ran the width of the country and spanned around 100km along the Ben Hai river, divided the fueding North and South. I had buried myself deep in the history when reading Kim Phuc's words which detailed her ordeal in the Vietnam war as a youth when she was excruciatingly scolded by napalm, an event which was captured as one of the most prominent photogrqphs of the war. And so, arriving at my appointed travel agents to pick up my ticketo Hanoi, I hatched a plan to travel North by bike to immerse myself briefly in the

inclement ambience of the place. What transpired was a daring and foolish plan to make flight 100km north with a hasty guide to visit various significant historical points before, due to time constrictions, intersecting the bus travelling north to Hanoi which would have been pre-loaded with my backpack by the agents hours before. My faith was entirely in the hopefully honest hands of the Vietnemese people.... Despite a gut wrenching delay of 45 minutes at a seemingly deserted food hall on the side of a darkening highway, the bus eventually arrived with my bag (in tact, everything accounted for) and the reputation of the wonderful Vietnemese shone as brightly as their unfaultering smiles. I had got to walk the demilitarized divide before climbing through the dank, frighteningly dark Cong tunnels of night with the company of a most gregarious young guide or more accurately: random citizen with a bike, as he turned out to know next to nothing about the Vietnam war, other than its name, and actually seemed very interested and recptive to all I had to tell him about it. Still, I had fulfilled my goal, made the most of the drastic alterations to my hashed travel plans, and was en route to make my flight from Hanoi.

Unfortunately, and unbelievably, tempers quickly rose on my final bus journey to Hanoi as the ireverently irascible driving duo became a dominatingly volitile presence throughout the journey. From the outset theyd violently whalloped me with a slipper as I bought a few flecks of dusk in on the sole of my foot and inexplicably trangressed into spitting fury in the blink of a terrifying eye for the duration of the journey. Any sound that emitted from my small, uncomfortable bed/seat at the front of the bus resulted in furious reproach with the driver systematically beating his fist against his head, however they were nonetheless bizarrely impervious to the incessant beeping coming from the dash board which went unnoticed for the entire 8 hours. The amoebic assistant smoked throught his shift in the early hours undercover of night thinking we were all asleep, but hastily struck a little 19 year old English girl, patiently holding an unignited cigarette in her hand, with the full fury of a subsequent slipper after which I had no choice but to launch a swift leg extension right into his chest in defence, sending him tumbling backwards onto the lap of the driver. Such a bizzare and bellicose contrast to the delightful people I'd met in this country. However the whole fiasco provided a pretty hilarious story which was met with uncontrolled teary hysteria when I told my sister of the events...

The oppressive and insane men reminded me of a solemn incident I'd come breifly across in Hoi An. A lovely gregarious woman who, despite her perhaps alterior motive to embroil me in some sort of tailoring serivce at her mother's shop several minutes away which unfortunately for her did not culminate in a sale, showed herself to be a most warm and friendly soul on the walk, yet revealled a dark shred of her past in the form of a lengthy scar on her face. A heavy handed husband was to blame and she'd escaped worse injury to live alone. Such a shame that during my final few hours in Vietnam several derranged individuals set about deconstructing my faith in the people, and questioned the wholesome expansive family values I'd noticed first hand with a harrowing shadow of brutal patriarchy. Given all that the country has been through, I can only hope that that widespread peacefulness I almost always observed is the progressively prevalent ideology. Having said this, had I too had a plastic slipper on the bus, I may have used it liberally.

Upwards then onwards to Indonesia!